Aren Vale opened his eyes to a world that was not his own.
He sat at the head of a colossal marble table, surrounded by men and women whose auras pressed heavily against the walls themselves — nobles, generals, rulers of great houses. An endless ceiling of crystal lights loomed above, the golden sun pouring through tall windows carved with ancient patterns. Rich red banners, stitched with silver embroidery of dragons and swords, hung from every pillar.
Aren's body — no, his body now — was straight-backed, calm, utterly commanding. Even seated, even silent, he was a presence so absolute that no one dared speak without first glancing at him.
Inside, he was screaming.
What the hell is happening?!
Where am I? Who are these people?
Memories, old and vast and full of glory, swirled inside him like a rising tide. They flooded into his soul — not drowning him, but merging. His ordinary mind fused with the vast, cold, disciplined existence of Aren Vale: Grand Duke, Swordmaster, Transcendent.
He saw himself — this other self — leading armies that conquered kingdoms, dueling gods on mountain peaks, shaping the fate of continents. A lion clad in armor and gold, feared and worshiped.
And now... expected to rule still, as always.
Today was supposed to be the Annual Summit, a gathering of the highest powers to discuss the policies and borders of the year ahead. As tradition demanded, the Grand Duke was expected to reaffirm loyalty, manage treaties, and oversee defense plans.
The Emperor, seated nearby, watched Aren with patient, knowing eyes — a man of radiant youth and beauty, whose every movement carried the effortless dignity of a Transcendent. No wrinkles touched his smooth skin, no weakness dulled his sharp golden gaze. He was living proof that time itself dared not leave its mark upon him.
Beside the Emperor, the Prime Minister cleared his throat nervously. The highest Dukes shifted uncomfortably in their seats, the air heavy with unspoken tension. Every eye was waiting for Aren's word.
The silence stretched.
Say something!
Panic clawed at the edges of his mind — then faded, as the immense composure of Aren Vale wrapped around him like an old, warm coat.
Aren exhaled slowly.
He rose to his feet with a fluid, graceful motion. The very air seemed to bow. Lesser nobles unconsciously lowered their heads. Even seasoned Dukes stiffened, instinctively bracing themselves.
"I," Aren spoke, his voice deep and sonorous, each word carrying the weight of mountains,
"—stand here today not merely as ruler, nor as conqueror."
Murmurs rippled. Eyes widened.
"I stand as a man who has given his life to the sword, to the people, and to the world. I have watched generations rise. I have buried brothers in arms. I have tasted all victories, all defeats."
He paused. His golden gaze swept the room — and many flinched before it.
"And now," Aren continued, a strange warmth entering his voice,
"I choose another path."
Shock froze the hall. Even the Emperor's brows lifted, just slightly.
"I announce my retirement," Aren said. "From titles. From wars. From politics."
A few nobles gasped aloud. Others simply stared, mouths slightly open.
"I shall no longer sit at councils, nor march at the head of armies. From this day forth, I walk only for myself, and for those I love."
The heavy silence was broken only by the soft clink of a dropped wine glass.
"Only if the fate of humanity itself stands on the edge of ruin," Aren finished, "shall I rise again."
His voice rang out like a sword's final note.
He placed a single hand on the shoulder of a man seated at his right — a handsome man in his thirties, strong and steady, though visibly straining under the pressure of his father's reputation.
"My son, Darian Vale, will bear the mantle of the Vale House," Aren said. "From this day, he shall be Duke Vale."
Darian's eyes widened — pride and terror warring in his gaze — but he lowered his head deeply, accepting the impossible responsibility placed upon him.
The Emperor stood, smiling faintly. A sadness lurked behind the smile, but also approval.
"You have earned your peace, Aren Vale," the Emperor said, voice soft but carrying through the vast hall. "The Lion may slumber... but we know he has not fallen."
Aren bowed his head respectfully. Then, without another word, he turned and walked from the grand hall, his steps echoing against the ancient stones.
No one stopped him.
No one dared.
The ride home was smooth and fast.
Aren leaned back against the plush leather seat of a sleek, dark vehicle — a luxury car that hummed with quiet power, its engine enhanced with cultivation-based tech.
Fields of golden wheat and stretches of ancient forests blurred past the tinted windows, blending the modern world with the timeless land his ancestors had ruled.
He breathed deeply.
The pressure of the summit, the sharp political games, the endless responsibilities — all of it had fallen away.
In its place, a strange lightness filled him.
And as he sat, Aren Vale — the cold, disciplined, divine warrior — stirred inside him.
Memories of battlefields and blood, victories and loss.
The honor of oaths sworn under starlit skies.
And yet... new emotions, foreign and soft, colored those memories now.
I have a wife, he thought, wonder filling his chest.
I have children. I have grandchildren.
His heart warmed painfully.
A small, almost shy smile tugged at the corner of his lips.
He was home by sunset.
The Vale Estate sprawled before him — ancient stone wrapped in flowering gardens, glittering ponds, and sprawling green lawns. Crystal lights floated gently along the paths, illuminating the estate with soft glow.
And there she stood.
At the foot of the grand stairs, waiting, was Selene Vale — his wife.
She looked no older than twenty-five, her raven hair cascading over her shoulders like silk, her violet eyes filled with quiet joy. A simple white dress danced around her ankles in the breeze.
Selene hurried toward him, relief and happiness blooming in her features.
"Aren," she whispered, her voice trembling slightly. "You're back."
Without thinking, he stepped forward and pulled her into his arms.
She melted against him without hesitation, hands clutching his robes.
In both of his lives, Aren realized, he had rarely — if ever — held someone like this.
Not for duty.
Not for protection.
Simply because he wanted to.
"I'm home," he said into her hair, and the words tasted sweeter than any victory.
From the garden, two young girls peeked around a tree — one serious, clutching a wooden sword, the other playful, already waving at him with both hands.
His granddaughters.
His family.
His heart.
And so, as the sun set over the Vale Estate, the Lion of the world — feared, revered, unmatched — laid down his crown, his sword, and his burdens.
Not in defeat.
But in peace.
At last.